


The Crook Chronicles

by writtenthroughtime



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:04:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenthroughtime/pseuds/writtenthroughtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A while back Tumblr's Lenny9987 and I were discussing parallel's within Outlander's characters and speculating what character might be related to who. We ended up creating a plan for a co-writing project/experiment post of sorts. The stories are related but also independent and we’ll be writing and publishing them simultaneously on our Tumblr blogs. The characters we are focusing on are Mr. Crook (the character Mrs. Baird introduces Claire to from the beginning of Outlander) and Mrs. Crook (you all may remember her being a fixture/house keeper/cook/nanny in the Fraser Household at Lallybroch in 1743). <br/>I will be writing about Mr. Crook and Lenny9987 will be writing for Mrs. Crook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Crook - 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Lenny9987's brilliant first chapter of Mrs. Crook's Crook Chronicles in the link below.
> 
> http://lenny9987.tumblr.com/post/137408134368/the-crook-chronicles

“They say on fire feasts the Old Ones come out to play. Often they’re called the wee folk, dinna be fooled my lad, for they can be as tall as the trees and braw as the mountains, as small as a bairn or as dainty as the heather. Dinna fash yourself with their purpose, for the Old Ones ken who they are looking for, be it lad or lass there is always one on their minds and ye canna stop them. Some of the wee folk come to cause mischief and harm, others to snatch yer bairns, but some come to find their true love. The Faerie hills, such as the one at Craig Na Dun mo chridhe, are their prison and they dinna like to be locked away. Two-hundred years they be prisoners, when they manage to escape the pull back to their tombs call to them. Ye’ll ken a Faerie when ye set eyes upon them—their eyes glaze over, their heid's tilt erra so slightly to the wind, all the while drifting towards the stone, tree or burn from whence they came…” 

Grandda Crook’s voice played over in my mind. A Faerie story his Grannie would scoff and laugh then pull out books filled with etchings of tiny winged beasts with claws for hands and daggers for teeth. She’d say “Those be real Faeries. Ye Grandda dinna kent what he says.” Grandda would smile, kiss Grannie on the cheek and say “Aye, yer right.” When she would leave he’d turn back telling more fantastical tales of Faeries. Not just the tales every Scot learned growing up, but ones passed on from his grandparents many generations ago. 

“Yer great-great-great-Grannie kent a Faerie!” I remember my young eyes widened and jaw dropped uttering an elongated wow at the thought. 

“I’s speak the truth young one. She worked on the old Lallybroch estate for the Clan Fraser, ye ken, she helped out wi’ jus aboot errathing ye could think of. When her bairns had grown and the bairns of the estate were grown the new Laird brought his Lady home. A Sassenach, they called her, a healer. Kind as the summer breeze and protective as a bear! Yer great-great-great Grannie spoke of how the new Mistress would often be found wi’ wee herbs and posies she’d turn into potions that healed like no other or pressin’ the same into ‘specimens’ for later study. What set this Sassenach as a Faerie was her story. No sensible Englishwoman would stray deep into yon forrest near Inverness by herself wi’oot a wish for death, but this lass claimed she was found by Craig Na Dun, found she says! Ha! Why the new Lady Broch Tuarach was a Faerie, come to find her love and hide away wi’ him, the Laird Broch Tuarach. Ye kent his story lad? The Dun Bonnet? Aye, well then ye kent she was stolen again by the Faerie stones at Craig Na Dun. Two hundred years she waited and now she must wait again.”

I remember asking him about her love, what would she do when the two hundred years of waiting was over? Wouldn’t he long since be dead? He would nod, a curl of smoke rising from a pipe and tell me she would have to go back through the stones on the same Faerie Hill which took her if the time be wrong, back to wait another two-hundred years to a time she may no ken. Always waiting and hoping to find him. That’s the true romantic tragedy, the beloved Laird and Lady forever parted by time. 

When Mrs. Baird called upon me that fateful afternoon, I did not expect to have these tales of Faeries come back so readily. I hadna kent of them since my bairns were young and with their own bairns also grown I dinna have reason to call upon them, until now.

Claire Randall was a different sort of woman, even for a Sassenach. A passion for herbal remedies and posies within this confounded world of machinery and progress was like the summer breeze on a rare sunny day. She dinna mind to listen to an old man tell stories or experiences. Always listening, seemingly never in a rush, content to be as she was. 

It wasna Claire’s name nor her passion for nature that set my mind a racin’, twas her genteel manner, the way she held herself, the calm she exuded and the crooked set of her right little finger. Just seeing the finger set my mind ablaze with the stories my Grandda once told of the Old Ones and the Faerie that came to live with our family in 1743. There was a journal my great-great Grannie Joanie kept while helping her mother-in-law at the Fraser’s estate, and a press that had been passed on to Joanie’s daughter, and on down the line until my nephew brought both back to me. The lass needs her tools returned. If she be the Faerie of Broch Tuarach it’s my job to see her back to her Laird and back through the stones.


	2. Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out Lenny9987's Mrs. Crook part 2 which can be found in the link below or on Tumblr! 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5772160/chapters/13469878

On our third meeting I took a chance and took the lass to Craig Na Dun. Disguising the trip as a trek through the local flora, I convinced Mrs. Randall that I would teach her more about the medicinal properties of the plants scattered about the near countryside. Her joy at the idea was infectious and gave me a reason to question even more if she was the same Claire from the journals. 

The journey to the stones was pleasant, the misty skies were, for once, a deep blue with a warm sun beating down upon us. The old Blackburn rumbled along the hillside, too noisy to carry on a conversation but gave me the perfect time to think over what I must do to see if it is true. Deciding on what to show her would be the difficult part. What information would be the most useful to know if she was one of the Fae or not? The stones will be able to tell me more, this close to Beltane perhaps she might be able to hear the pull? 

Turning off the bike I turned to Claire and pointed to the hill I wished to start with. “Just up ahead is where we’ll start. The dew glistened buttercups I promised will be just on the other side of it, plus many other useful plants you may enjoy.” 

Claire nodded and smiled helping me take apart the saddlebags holding the press. When she wasna looking I grabbed the journals and stuffed them into my coat pockets. If there was an opportunity, I would reveal more, perhaps give her free range of them, but only if the signs were true. 

“Yer wee buttercups may be bonnie and all but I wouldna write those down as medicinal, unless of course ye want to cause harm. Beauties, yes, but harmful. Ye make a potion out o’ those and ye’ll be having blisters and oozing sores where’er they touch!” 

Claire nodded, with neat delicate strokes plucked the flower and pressed it. Flowers kept safe in glass instead of her journal. The original journal too delicate to bequeath, but a newer replica copied down in my handwriting to preserve the old awaited her. I chuckled shaking my head, if she were to go back and take my wee journal then the one I have locked away is the same as the one I plan to give her. What would become of those first hundred pages of my writing? Would they have been destroyed and she had to copy them over from memory? 

“Now this wee yellow flower we call Tormentil, but the Latin is Potentilla Erecta. Ye boil the roots wi’ a bit o’ milk and ye have yourself a treatment for skitters.” Her brow furrowed.

“The what?”

“Diarrhea my dear.” She nodded again. “Now the tormentil can also be used as a lotion if ye boil in water to relieve sunburn, and if ye believe my Grannie, it’ll tone up some loose skin.”

For several hours we passed the time in companionable learning. She would press the flowers, smile, and ask questions from time to time; nothing out of the ordinary. Her questions reflected that of someone eagerly soaking in information, not that of someone fact checking. After a while when the sun was starting to hide be hind clouds, we began gathering our items and stowed them back in the saddlebags exchanging them for our picnic. 

“Did ye know that the Heilands didna used to grow potatoes?”

“Potatoes? Really? I thought they were a staple in these parts.”

“Oh aye, indeed they are…now. Legend says that a Laird’s wife was so distressed for potatoes that she hailed all farmers in the area to find her the spuds she required. None could be found—So deep in the Heilands did this lass live, but when she was gone a man finally brought a seeding potato to her home. The family distraught, for Himself and the Mistress had left from that place ne’er to be heard from again, the former Laird’s sister took up the task with the workers and tenants to plant the potatoes. Shortly after the crops were blossoming and fully taking root, a great famine withered away at the Heiland people. This was shortly after the great rebellion of ’45 and all but a few survive. The farm the Lady had been province of didna starve as the other’s. She saved them, she wasna there to see it or go through the famine wi’ her people, but she saved them.”

“That’s a lovely story. I had heard about the ’45 thanks to Frank, I did not realize the Scottish people went through a devastating famine shortly after.”

“Oh yes! Yes! The British soldiers cut off supplies and constantly raided settlements taking what little the owners had. Starving the lot of them. The Lady from the tale must have had her people also build a Priest’s hole somewhere on the estate so that they could hide what the could to feed themselves.”

“Where did you hear such a story? It’s truly remarkable and I’m sure my husband would love to hear it.”

“Ah, now that lass, is a family secret. I’ll tell ye but ye canna tell a soul that I did.” I winked at her, a giggle and a nod were my confirmation.

“My great-great-great-Grannie lived on the estate. She and her daughter-in-law kept tomes of stories, remedies, and their thoughts from the days they lived there. I canna say the story I told you is completely accurate or true, but that’s one o’ my families legends. We are tied to the history of the potatoes in the Heilands.”

“That’s lovely, to know and be so seeped in history.” Her face took a forlorn look, “I do wish I knew more about my own. Perhaps, I can persuade Frank to research some of the Beauchamp’s.” 

“Perhaps my dear, perhaps.”

As we ate, her mind seemed to never stop and she noticed the Faerie Hill without the slightest of nudges. Perhaps the hill and their stones will remind her of her past, since her tale of the potatoes did not. Taking her to the stones, her face was alight with joy and fascination, almost as much as with the plants. From stone to stone she flitted about, muttering to herself, or making a general comment. One stone she avoided, whether consciously or unconsciously, was the large center stone. 

It must still be too early for her to hear the sound of her ancestors. After hearing her reference the Beauchamp’s I knew I had the right woman, but for some reason she couldna remember who she was.


	3. Forget-Me-Nots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of the writing experiment with Lenny9987

I studiously flipped through the journals left behind, eager to find something that may be of use for Claire and her journey back. As a traveller she would need guidance. If only the journal told me who to guide her to. My Grannie would be more than willing to help, with her being at Lallybroch though and Claire coming through at Craig Na Dun… it wouldn’t work. The distance is too great for a woman to travel on her own in the time she should arrive. 

Mrs. Graham. Yes, Miora Graham, her family settled in the Inverness area centuries ago—and deeply rooted in the Druid culture—would have members in any time Claire may go back. Rushing to the telephone I went to dial the Reverend Wakefield’s in search of Mrs. Graham. 

The phone receiver still perched by my ear the door bell rang, halting my current actions. Odd, I was not expecting anyone to arrive. 

“Yes, yes coming!” I shouted at the persistent knocking and ringing. Pulling the door open, Mrs. Baird stood at my doorstep, frantically wringing her gloves between her hands. 

“Oh! Mr. Crook have you heard the most dreadful news?” 

I ruffled my brow, not knowing of which set of dreadful news she referred. “Come in my dear, come in. Please inform me of which news ye are referring to.”

Mrs. Baird followed me to the sitting room on shaking legs, her nerves clearly shot.

“Oh, thank-ye kindly,” she said, sitting down on the settee. “It’s Mrs. Randall! Gone, she is! Her husband, Mr. Randall has been taken in for questioning on the disappearance of his wife, and he’s the one who reported it! The nerve of some folk, thinking a man of his station would do harm to his wife.” She said, looking down and angrily shaking her head back and forth. 

“Mrs. Randall? Gone?” No, no this cannot be. She was not ready to travel back, what would have caused her to go so soon? 

“Can ye tell me more, Mrs. Baird? Where, how, why she’s gone missing?” I moved to the edge of my seat, my feet tapping impatiently on the rug . So much I still had to tell her, where to find her true husband, more plants and their uses! Her memory being wiped is not helpful for what she was about to encounter.

“Weel, all I know is that the lady went up to Craig Na Dun yesterday afternoon—picking flowers of some sort according to Mr. Randall— she had promised to be home for supper. Only when supper arrived, Mrs. Randall was no where to be seen! The car was parked at the bottom of that accursed Faerie Hill and there’s no trace of her!” Mrs. Baird wailed, sobbing into a handkerchief. “Oh! Mr. Crook, what are we to do? Mrs. Randall is missing!”

“Hush now, Genevieve,” I consoled, reaching out and rubbing her upper arm. “To be frank I didna realize that ye cared so much for the lass. She’s only been under you lodgings for nigh on a week.”

“Aye,” she hiccuped. “But the lass was kind, and her husband so knowledgable; a perfectly lovely couple. I dinna wish harm on either of them and now this…” She blew her nose into the handkerchief and withdrew another from the inside of her small clutch. “Mr. Randall proposed a search party for his wife, the authorities agree but not until Mr. Randall submits to a questioning.” 

I looked out the window in the direction of Craig Na Dun, I had to get there and take a look around. A sign was surely to be found if she did indeed travel, I am fairly certain of the instance indeed, but I need further proof! Grannie’s journal had a section on the travelers and the items they may leave behind as evidence of their travel. If a search party was called, that may be my only chance to discreetly slip up to the stones and find what I can to prove to myself she is Claire Fraser, Lady Broch Tuarach. 

“Ye said a search? Will they be needing volunteers?” Mrs. Baird nodded. “Aye, good. Well I’m a mighty fine tracker in my own rights, and I ken what ye can and canna eat in the woods near Craig Na Dun. Dinna suppose I’d be a welcome volunteer?” I asked feigning reluctance. 

“Oh! Mr. Crook, would you? I’m sure any one and everyone that can help will be needed. I must run off to tell Moira and Judy. Do keep me informed of the search findings if you please?” before the end of her statement, Mrs. Baird was out of her chair on, slightly less shaken legs, and in a whirl of skirts out the door to spread the word of a search. 

The following day was the day the searches began. The police called high and low for volunteers of all ages to call out, search and poster Inverness and the surrounding towns for signs of Claire Randall. I chose the search portion, hopping on my motorcycle a feeling of sadness washed over me remembering the lovely afternoon shared with Mrs. Fraser. 

Craig Na Dun was devoid of all life save or the grass and the moss that grew about the stones. An eery wind was a constant ebb and flow making finding loose items she may have dropped that much harder to find. 

A flutter of white lace caught my eye. Wedged between the cleft of stone was a woman’s handkerchief. Gently I tugged it out of the stone and a beautiful blue-purple flower with an orange center fell into my hand, Forget-me-nots. The delicate flower was starting to wilt, the petals drooping inward. Just like that, she was gone. Only this small token remained. 

Oh, my….Gone… she is really gone, it worked! 

“My God, she’s done it! She’s gone back.”

Looking up at the stone a strong gust of wind knocked me off balance as I searched its face for evidence of its power. Send her to her husband, I mentally implored the stones. Send her back to where she belongs.


	4. Mr. Crook 4 - Letters

It was now three years since Mrs. Fraser’s disappearance, and I knew she was where she belonged. Her other husband at first, distraught with grief from being questioned every other day about her disappearance seemed to have given up, finally. No man, woman or child trusted the crazed Englishman whose wife’s whereabouts was still a mystery to them. The longer Frank Randall stayed in Scotland, the more blushing, infatuated young ladies that seemed to trickle from his quarters disheveled, giggling and rosier than whence they arrived—the ladies all, all too willing to help ease this man’s suffering. The day he finally decided to leave Scotland, the parents of all young women breathed a sigh of relief.

I once approached him to help put his mind at ease, and allow him to know at least one person does not believe him to be the murderer that most believe him to be. Before I could utter a word, a book was thrown at my head and the door slammed in my face faster than imagined possible. Dear Mrs. Graham was the tipping for Mr. Randall’s departure speaking of Faerie Hills and time travel. After her attempted talk with him, the searches ceased and he was heard from no more, hopefully for good.

Thoughts of Randall subsequently lead to my mind wandering towards the wellbeing of Claire Randall Fraser. I smiled to myself thinking of Claire in her rightful time with her husband.

I grabbed a tome from the bookshelf at random; a flurry of papers fluttered to the floor in response. Yellowed papers ruffling about the edges, one sealed with a lump of wax, the other bound by a strand of twine. The paper crinkled and crunched when I picked them up—curiosity got the better of me as I pulled the string off of the one letter.

_25 April 1745_

_To whom this letter is being read,_

_Please understand that it is of the utmost importance that this entry and the wax sealed letter remain hidden until the proper time._   
_Himself has finally fallen asleep, the paper still clutched tight to his breast. His left hand unwilling to let go of the paper, I was lucky to not rip it as I pulled it from his ink-stained hand. The letter is about the Mistress Fraser. The words in his letter confirm that she did in fact come from a Faerie Hill. She must be protected. Two-hundred years the legends say, if that’s so this needs to be protected and kept for the Mistress. The year of our Lord nineteen-hundred and forty-five or thereabouts would be the time when this is needed._

_If you have indeed found this and yourself in 1945, please find a Mistress Claire Fraser, or rather Claire Beauchamp and give the wax sealed letter to her._

My jaw dropped while reading the scrawling script; an ancestor of mine had written this, one that intimately knew the Laird and Lady Broch Tuarach. A smile slowly crept onto my face in realization this letter will never be needed. Claire Fraser had made her way home, and will not need the reassurances of the sealed letter. Intrigued by the possibility of what this other letter contained, I gently popped the wax seal and began to read.

My eyes widened and my hands began to shake, the love, sadness woven into the messy script. The heartache this young man felt at sending his wife back alone…pregnant.

Pregnant?

My brow and upper lip broke out into a sweat. Claire Randall had never been pregnant, at least no mention of a bairn had ever come up in polite conversation—her yearning for a bairn yes, but not having ever been with or currently raising one.

Could she?

No. I thought to myself. She couldn’t come back through. How many times did the legends say they only travel twice? Once there and once back.

Dear God in Heaven, please make sure Claire Fraser stays where she belongs and never graces this generation again. She deserves to be happy, to have this young Laird be happy with and because of her.

The phone rang, breaking my prayers.

“Mr. Crook! Have you heard the good news?” Mrs. Baird’s voice chirped on the line.

“News, why no. I haven’t heard any new at all.” I replied feigning curiosity, anxious to get back to my books and letter from the young Broch Tuarach.

“Mrs. Randall is back! She’s back!” Mrs. Baird’s cheery voice exclaimed.

“Back?” My heart sunk, there was a reason the anguish in the letter was too raw, too real—it had just happened.


	5. FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a fun journey and an awesome experiment. I hope all of you have enjoyed this tale I know Lenny and I have had a lot of fun writing Mr & Mrs. Crook's tales. With a bittersweet click, we now mark this complete.

I raced through town in a flurry. Papers trailed behind me as they flew from the motorcycle’s saddle bags, the letter—the only important paper I now possessed—secured in my breast pocket.

I skidded to a halt in front of the reception desk and inquired for Claire Randall’s room.   “Oh, Mrs. Randall is in room 416, sir, but she’s not to have any visitors.” The young woman said apologetically.

“No visitors?” I questioned, and placed a hand on the counter with a light thump.

“Her husband has requested it be as so. There’s a very specific list of people allowed to see Mrs. Randall and the general public is not on the list. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Randall’s. Please I need to see her.” I implored. My heart raced and the letter seemed to burn my skin from its placement against my chest.

“I’ll call up and ask if a friend of Mrs. Randall would be permitted. What did you say your name was again?” She asked as she stood.

“It’s Bhraghad, Bhraghad Crook. The Missus will know me by Mr. Crook.”

Once her back was turned I darted to the stairwell.

Permission be damned.

The door for room 416 was slightly ajar. I cautiously pushed the door open, and peered inside. Claire was in a sterile bed, gazing forlornly out the window to her left while her hand twisted and pulled on a ring upon her right hand. Frank Randall, stood at the foot of the bed, hands white from the force of the grip he had on the bars of the foot of the bed.

“—do you want me to say, Frank?” Claire’s voice was broken, her whisper heartbreaking.

“I want you to tell me the truth!” Frank yelled.

Claire flinched. I noticed that she could not meet Frank’s eyes. Whatever had occurred in the past, still lingered fresh and raw within her, that much was certain.

“I am!” She challenged back.

I took this moment to clear my throat, alerting them to my presence and thwarting Mr. Randall from yelling at her again.

“Mrs. Randall? I heard ye had made it back safely, praise the Lord.” I consoled, holding my hat to my chest with one had as the other deftly pulled the letter from its place by my heart.

“Mr. Crook?” Claire’s voice broke.

“Aye, my dear, I thought you could use a friendly face.” I walked across the room and laid a hand on her arm. She rewarded me with a ghost of a smile. “I have brou—“

“Are you related to a Mrs. Crook from the Lallybroch estate?” Claire blurted out in one breath, the words strung together as one.

Startled, I squeezed her arm. “Aye, that’d be my Grannie. Meet her did ye?”

She nodded and I gave her a warm smile—something that it didn’t look like she had been welcomed with yet.

“What are you doing in here?” Mr. Randall demanded. “I told the incompetent fools that she was to have no visitors! NONE!”

Mr. Randall’s ire had manifested into physical rage. He grabbed the lapels of my coat and dragged me out the door, unceremoniously tossing me to the hall floor. I hit the ground hard, pain shot up from my hip and my eyes watered.

“I do not want to see you here again,” Mr. Randall threatened. “You are not to come near my wife or this hospital while she is a patient again or I will call upon the full force of the law to restrain you.”

His brown eyes turned black and the glare he gave me caused me to shudder.

“Aye, I understand Mr. Randall. I dinna mean no harm for ye or yer wife. I am fond of her from the days we explored the wilderness from yer first visit.”

Mr. Randall did not reply, he simply glared even colder towards me. I used the wall to aid myself in shakily standing up. the precious letter still in my hand.

“I wilna bother ye again, but I have something here for your Missus. Tis only a letter,” I assured as I saw his face start to redden and hands whiten. “If ye wouldna mind to give it to her. I believe this will bring her some comfort.”

“Fine.” Mr. Randall said. He tore the letter from my hand and waved me off.

Frank Randall ripped the letter open, and I reached out to stop him a yell caught in my throat.

His face etched in a hideous sneer as he read the private words of the Laird Broch Tuarach to his Lady. I watched as he tossed the letter to the ground and walked back into the room slamming the door shut as he went. The letter lay crumpled on the ground with the only words visible a profession heartbreaking love:

_Ye are blood of my blood and bone of my bone, Mo Nighean Donn._

_No matter where you are, no matter when ye are, you are mine and mine alone. Mine forever and ye canna change that._

_I love you, Sorcha, until the end of time._

_Your most obedient and loyal servant,_  
_Your husband,_

_James A.M.M. Fraser_


End file.
